//------------------------------//
// The Boy Who Kicked the Changeling's Nest 
// Story: The Girl with the Lyre Tattoo 
// by Dennis the Menace 
//------------------------------//

He had gone upstairs to think. 

"Adrian?" 

She'd followed him. She shut the door. His heart pounded faster. Even faster now. He was waiting for those words. 

"We need to talk about us." 

It was the last thing he ever wanted to hear come out from Lyra's mouth. There was nothing to talk about. There was no more "us". He'd come to terms with it on the ride home the night before. The moment those words left Chrysalis' mouth, he felt something in him break: his heart.  Lyra hadn't seduced him. But she had deceived him. Whatever excuse she had, whatever the circumstances, he felt lied to. For what purpose, he hadn't known at the time. Now it was all too clear. All the hugs, the kisses, the sex: all of it felt fake. He'd made a mistake, emotionally investing himself into Lyra. He'd done it again, chasing after girls out of his league, jumping too quick into a relationship that was doomed from the start. 

Adrian threw his hands up in defeat, letting his palms smack his thighs. "What do you want me to say?" 

"Nothing," she said. "I just want you to listen. Adrian, I—" She began to stride forward. 

He crossed his arms, not letting her get the best of him for a second. He sat down on the edge of his bed. 

"I'm listening," he said. 

Lyra opened her mouth, then closed it, choosing her words carefully. Finally, she said, 

"I'm sorry. For lying to you." 

Adrian's head nodded slowly. He pursed his lips. 

"Okay." 

Lyra looked relieved, stepping forward to embrace him. "Thank you, Adrian, I—" 

He stopped her. "No." 

"What?" 

"I said I forgive you. I didn't say that things were okay." 

Lyra blinked. 

It hurt. It hurt so much. More specifically, right in his gut. He supposed that it was a good thing that it hurt him to hurt her. If he didn't hurt at all, if there was no feeling, then in the end their relationship would have been nothing. But there was something. And telling her this, it hurt him so much and he was almost starting to think he actually loved her. 

"W-What, you think we just kiss and makeup? Just l-like that?" 

Lyra frowned. Maybe she had been entertaining the idea...

"Just because you're telling the truth doesn't change the fact that you lied to me." 

Lyra flinched. 

"What did you tell her? Chrysalis?" 

"Nothing," Lyra said. "Nothing important."

"That's all?" 

She nodded. "Mostly. It wasn't anything big, Adrian! Just snippets of us doing things together. The pictures I took were mostly for Chrysalis to scope out the area. And anything about human relations I got from case studies and...experiments." As if to emphasize her point, she added, "With you. But all of it was real. I...I like you a lot. Really." 

"Do you know how I feel?" 

She remained silent. 

"Right now, I feel like I was used. I feel used." 

"It was never like that," Lyra insisted, shaking her head. 

"That's what you keep saying." 

"I wanted to be with you." Lyra corrected herself. "I still want to." 

"What if things had gone the way they were supposed to last night? Once you were done you were just gonna get up and leave, is that it?" Adrian said. "I'd wake up and get a text and you'd be gone?" 

"I-I didn't know any other way." 

"You could have told me the truth." 

Lyra scowled. "You'd think I was crazy." 

"No, I wouldn't—"

Lyra snapped, "Yes, yes you would! Even when Twilight showed her your magic you still wouldn't believe us! And you already thought I was insane and had amnesia!" 

Adrian murmured quietly, "I would have listened." He scowled. "I don't know what Equestria is like Lyra, but I live here—in the real world?" 

"What's your poi—" 

"My point is that things aren't okay!" he shouted. 

A thought crossed his mind. He wanted to banish it immediately from the depths of his mind. It was the most awful, most cruel thing he could think of. In the heat of the moment when passions were high, he thought to himself, 

I should have just taken you to the hospital and left you there. 

Lyra's face screwed up with anger. 

"You were the one who chased after me!" Lyra accused, jabbing a finger at him. 

"What?!" 

The blame game. It was too easy to resort to such measures. 

"Yeah! You're right!" he shouted back. "It won't happen again!" 

There. He'd said it. He regretted it instantly and tried to figure out why. But he knew he was right. At least, in his mind, he was right. He wasn't going to play the bad guy this time. 

"Lyra, I have a future! I'm going to go to college!" he stressed, driving the point home. 

She tried to placate him. "Adrian, please—"

He stopped her. "No, you know what? Save it." 

Lyra's lip trembled. He walked over to his bedroom door and tore it open.

"Go."

She didn't move. 

"Go." 

"Can't we talk about this?" 

"Not now." He shook his head. "Not here." 

For a moment they simply stared at each other, as if expecting the other to say something. 

"Adrian..." 

"Get out." It wasn't a shout. He didn't even sound remotely angry. Just frustrated. "Please? Just go. I can't do this right now." 

She wasn’t the type to get emotional. “Fine,” she said, turning away just in time to stop him from seeing her break into tears. 

Adrian gritted his teeth, his lower lip curled in a bitter, angry look, and mouthed a swear. 





"Hey, Butterfly," Gilda said. 

Gilda took the wheel. The Toyota sedan only had four passenger seats. Lyra rode up front next to Gilda in the passenger seat, while Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Twilight, Fluttershy crammed into the backseats meant to hold only three. With great protest Rarity was relegated to lie on the floor of the backseat, with the others trying their hardest not to step on her. Pinkie Pie was content to ride in the trunk.

There was a suffocating silence. No one dared speak. 

"Butterfly," she repeated. 

"Her name is Fluttershy," Rainbow said tersely. 

"Fluttershy." When she received no response, she continued. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." She chewed her lip. "For, you know."  

Fluttershy replied, "That's okay." 

Gilda nodded, letting out a barely audible sigh. At least that was over with. She leaned into the seat, taking the wheel with one hand. 

"I'm sorry, Lyra," Twilight said again. 

She didn't reply at first. She clenched her teeth, thinking of all the words she could snap back with to chew her out. She wanted to scream at her until her lungs ran out of air. Coupled with Adrian's rejection, Lyra's temper was on a hair-trigger. She hated Twilight Sparkle. Of all the ponies she could hate for her predicament back in Equestria, Twilight was the only one she could unleash her rage upon at the moment. Lyra didn't want to say, "That's okay", because it wasn't okay, and saying it would have meant that she had given in. As curtly as possible she responded, 

"Fine." 

"Where are we going?" Rainbow asked. 

"A motel," Gilda answered. "We'll stay there for a day or two while things settle down—" 

"And then we leave?" Applejack piped up. 

"No." 

"Excuse me?" Applejack said. 

"I said no, we aren't leaving." Before anyone could speak she cut them off. "Because I said so. We're helping Adrian out."

End of discussion. 

Applejack poked the inside of her cheek. "Alrighty then." 

And that was that. 

For the low, low price of seventy-five dollars they managed to rent three rooms for eight adults at a nearby Super 8 motel. 





Gray skies. Everything was gray. His room was gray. His house was gray. Something was missing in his life. He knew what it was, but he'd be damned if he would admit that Lyra made his life colorful. It was Psychology 101, Maslow's hierarchy. With Lyra, he felt loved. He felt as if he belonged. Now that she was gone he, he...

Adrian lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. There were some cobwebs in the corner. A crack in the ceiling. 

"Dammit."  

It was the third day wasted since they left the house. He'd decided to call his parents. They'd be back by August. He smiled, thinking of them. They really deserved the vacation. And he needed one too. He had to get away, not because there was any resentment towards the house itself, but rather, the feelings of frustration and resentment associated with it. He had to get away. He quickly threw on a white V-neck undershirt and black skinny jeans. His phone, his wallet, a gray hoodie that hadn't been washed in a few days and he was on his way down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, gone. He decided to walk. He was aware of his surroundings, but at the same time, almost dazed and confused. There were trees and grass. Other houses. But dead silence. He liked it that way. He didn't know how to feel. 

A few blocks down the road at a house that looked almost exactly like every other house on the street, he jogged up to the porch and knocked. 

Adrian felt ashamed of himself for neglecting his friends. His friends were many things. Obnoxious and vulgar, no doubt. Dependable? For sure. And loyal, too. And he'd been so caught up with Lyra that he'd barely spent any time with them at all.

"Knock knock," Adrian said, pounding a fist against the door again. 

"Who's there?" a muffled voice replied. 

"Open the door, asshole." 





"You thinking about him?" 

Lyra stood with her elbows propped up against the railing. Gray skies. It had been a few days. Maybe it was going to rain today. There was a faraway, forlorn look on her face. She let out a contemplative sigh. 

"Yeah," she admitted. "What do you think he's doing right now?" 

"Probably thinking about you." 

"You think so?" 





Adrian took a long drag on his blunt. His eyes were bloodshot and red. He let out a snort. 

He was not above the influence. 

"I dunno man. I think...I think I was more in love with the relationship. You know? The idea of a relationship," Adrian rambled, letting out a sigh. "She's just so...beautiful. She's smart, kind. Funny," Adrian said. "Hot," he added. "I think I fell in love with her looks first. Is that wrong?" 

His two buddies didn't answer. 

"Hey asshole," he said, giving one of them a wallop on the arm. "Is it wrong?" 

"Nah. Nothing wrong with thinking a girl's hot." 

"I mean, I'm not shallow or nothing..." 

"You're not shallow, man," he reassured him.  

"Tits or get the fuck out." 

Adrian snorted. "Love, man, it really makes you think." 

"Yeah, about how high you are right now!" 

"Ay, how 'bout we go to the club tonight?" 

Adrian dumbly shook his head. 

"Trinity Nightclub! Number one nightclub in downtown Seattle, man!" 

It took him a while for the gears in his head to turn. "Isn't that place only twenty-one over?" 

"So?" 

"Problem. We're all eighteen." 

His companion cleared his throat, handing newly printed driver's licenses to everyone. Adrian tilted his over in his hands a few times, scrutinizing the quality. It looked authentic, except with one minor detail: his date of birth, which now read as if he was twenty-one years old. 

"You shouldn't have!" Adrian howled. "Dude! How did you get this?" 

"Man, that shit's easy. Anyone can get a fake driver's license!" 

Why does life have to be so ironic?

"Think of it like a celebration." 

"No, no," Adrian said. "It's...not a good idea." 

"Dude, why not?"

"No." 

"C'mon." 

Peer pressure, peer pressure...

"...Alright." 

The boys cheered and whooped, giving him pats on the back and shoving him. 





"He's probably thinking about you right now," Gilda said. "Bah, humans." She took a drag on her cigarette. "Sure are something." 

Lyra grunted in reply. 

"Kinda scary," she said. "Ponies and humans are almost the same." She blew a ring of smoke. "Emotional." 

"Yeah." 

Gilda flicked her cigarette over the edge. "Tell me something," she said. "How come you like humans so much?" 

"Hands," Lyra said quietly. 

Gilda blinked. "Hands? Seriously?" 

"Yes. Hands. I love hands." 

Gilda stared. 

"It's called a joke." 

"Oh." 

"It's not only humans. I like myths, and fairy tales, and stuff." 

Gilda smirked. "This place what you thought it was gonna be? Paradise?" 

"No. It's not paradise. It doesn't have to be." 

"Listen, I know this probably isn't what you want to hear, but Adrian still loves you." 

"Gilda, cut the crap." It was stunning how easy profanity came off the tongue for Lyra after a month. "This isn't Equestria. You heard him. It's over." 

The gryphon let out a hiss. "He never said that things were over." 

"You didn't hear him." 

"Everyone heard him." 

"Telling someone to get out is a pretty obvious." 

"He told you to leave because he needed time to think things over." 

Lyra chewed her bottom lip, her eyes shut tight as she tried to hold tears back. Gilda, unsure of what to do, remained silent. There was a sniff. 

"You...You need a hug?" Gilda hesitated. 

Her voice was strained, the reply like a strangled cry. "No!" 

Gilda came up and hugged her anyway. "Yeah, well, you look like you need one anyway." 

Lyra's body sagged as she leaned against the gryphon, smothering herself into Gilda's bosom, her body quaking. "Oh...God, Gilda. I-I...." She buried her face deeper, squeezing her tight. 

Gilda said nothing. She was never good at any of this emotional kind of stuff. But she stayed quiet, letting Lyra hold her for as long as she needed to. Lyra's shaking began to end. 

"You want me to go talk to him?" 

Lyra sniffed and pulled away, wiping at her face. "No." 

Gilda touched her shoulder. "Get some sleep." She began to walk off.

"Where are you going?" 

"A ride." 

"Be careful," Lyra warned. 

Gilda tossed up a hand, not looking back. 

She was going to talk to him.





"You look like shit," was the first thing that came out Gilda's mouth when Adrian came strutting out the front door. 

He had gone through all of the trouble of showering too. There was nothing more stylish than a suit, and for an even more daring look he'd blacked out for a night at the club in a fitted black blazer, slacks, and dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and a pair of black Converses for a youthful flair. 

Adrian had to admit, Gilda wasn't quite as ugly as he remembered. Maybe it was the pot. She had a tomboyish sort of grace when she moved, like she was constantly stalking. She was tall, curvy. Even her punk hairdo, her bleached hair cropped short and molded into a fauxhawk, was attractive. She reminded him of P!nk. Though the snakebite piercings turned him off. And her style of dress was a little too grungy for his tastes. 

"Fuck off with the fuckin' wisecracks," Adrian muttered. "I'm not in the mood. What are you even doing here?" 

"Are you high?" Gilda inquired. 

"Like a kite," Adrian snickered before dissolving into a fit of laughter. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stunk. "You got your bike?" 

"Yeah. Went back to the apartment," Gilda told him. 

"You find anything?" 

She shook her head. "Apparently someone set fire to the place." 

Adrian was silent. "Sorry." 

"Sorry?" Gilda scoffed. "What's to be sorry for? I came and I got what I wanted," she said, affectionately patting the Suzuki. "Listen, I know you and I aren't the best of friends, but Lyra cares about you," Gilda said. "I've heard the way you two talk to each other—" 

"Waitwaitwaitwait, WHAT?" 

She sighed. "I eavesdropped on your conversations." 

He was dumbfounded. "H-How?!" 

"Neat little app on my iPhone," she said, remorseful, "which I don't have anymore courtesy of bug lady. Man, that thing was so freaking cool. There was an app that could help you crack a safe—"

"All of our conversations?!" 

"All of them," Gilda shuddered. 

"Did you hear when we—" 

"Yeah." 

"—and we were gonna—"

"Yeah, that too." 

"—on the—" 

"Can we stop talking about the sex? I'm not a prude and even I was uncomfortable," she said. 

"You tapped our phone calls?!" he yelled, his eyes flashing dangerously. 

"That's not the point. The point is that you should think about your relationship. I'm not saying you two have to be together anymore, but at least...break it off, and don't leave her hanging." 

He scowled. "Go to hell." 

She shrugged. "Maybe later." 

A car horn blared. A Lexus pulled up in front of the house. There was a repetitive thumping bass. The window rolled down and they screamed. 

"Adrian, c'mon! You get the trunk!" 

Adrian flipped them off. He jerked his head. 

"There's my ride." 

"This isn't a good idea." 

He spread his arms. "What you gonna do?" 

He shut the car door, rolling down the window and waving goodbye to Gilda, who simply stood still. He felt something vibrate in his pocket. His phone rang. 

It was a private number. 

Lyra no longer had her iPhone; neither did Gilda. His parents, maybe? On a whim, he answered the call. 

"Hello?"

The line went dead. 

"Who was it?" 

"Wrong number. Weird."  


One night later....


"Jesus..." 

The simple act of getting into a sitting position was arduous. His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It felt like someone was driving a spike into the back of his head as he craned his head. 

"What did I do last night?" 

His mind flashed back briefly. 





"Tequila!" Adrian shouted over the pounding R&B beats, looking over his shoulder. "Three, four, five...six! Six shots!"

Pounding beats raged through the club. They howled at the top of their lungs. He began doling out drinks. 

"Watch it, watch it!" he yelled. "Don't spill, don't spill it!" 





Oh yeah.

Maybe the shots weren't such a great idea. For this first time he was experiencing a hangover. Looking back, the phrase "getting hammered" made a lot more sense now, seeing as it felt like someone had taken a hammer to his head. Then again, going to a place where electronic house music was played at barely legal decibel in a cramped, enclosed space filled with sweaty dancing teenagers. It may have had to do with the fact that his three friends had no inside voices.

He heard the doorbell ring. 

Adrian sat up and threw his legs over the edge of his bed. He was shirtless, still wearing his slacks. The room spun as he tried to get into a standing position, half-crawling down the stairs. 

He peeked through the peep of the door. 

Lyra?

As if she knew he was watching, she beamed and gave a small wave. The whole thing screamed fishy. His mind screamed for him to stop himself, but the desire to speak to her, having had the time to think over his words, overwhelmed him. He twisted the lock and slowly opened the door. 

It was a gloomy summer day with a chilly breeze. Lyra was clad in a fashionable black pea coat and skinny jeans with a teal scarf thrown around her neck. 

She smiled. "Hey." 

He tried to return the smile. "Hey." He frowned. "How'd you get here?" He tried to get a look into the driveway. 

Lyra blocked his view. "I drove here, silly." 

"Where's your car?" 

She pointed off across the street. "Parked over there. Can I come in?" she blurted. 

Adrian squinted. He had taken his contacts out and while he wasn't blind as a bat, he couldn't pick out details at a distance. He saw a white sedan parked across the street, assuming it was her Toyota. 

It took him a few seconds to respond. "Uh...yeah. Sure." 

She stepped inside. He stared at her from behind, shutting the door and locking it. 

Lyra suddenly turned around and hugged him. "I missed you." 

There was something...off about Lyra. 

"Yeah," he said, not returning her affection. "Why are you here?" He pulled away from her embrace and sat down his couch. 

She took off her jacket and scarf and planted herself down next to him, giving him another hug. He scowled. She was touchy-feely. That was how Lyra normally was. But this was the sort of I-want-to-bang touchy-feely. Her hands roamed around his torso. 

"Ga-ah, Lyra!" Adrian said, moving away from her. 

He yelped as he felt her cold hands stroke his flesh. She grabbed him forcefully, making him sit down on his couch, and planted her rear in his lap. Their lips crashed, but Lyra was the only one who was putting any effort into kissing him. He half-heartedly kept his lips pursed, trying to pull away. She began to unbutton her shirt, keeping his face pressed into her chest.

He pushed her off to the side, standing up, his back facing away from her. 

"Lyra, no. This...this isn't right." 

Lyra encircled her arms around his neck from behind, planting soft kisses on his cheek, blowing air into his ear. 

"Why not?" she whispered. 

"Because." 

"You're just stressed." 

"This isn't the right time." 

His mind was telling him no, but his body was telling him yes. His eyes wandered and fell upon Lyra's teal scarf. He frowned. 

"Adrian?" 

"That's funny," he murmured softly.

"What?" Lyra's arms tightened around his neck.

"I don't ever recall buying you a scarf." 

"..." 

"Lyra?" 

"You're imagining things." 

Tighter. 

"No, really." He swallowed, suddenly aware that he was having a hard time breathing, patting her arm. "Lyra, let go." 

Tighter. 

He pulled at her arms. "Lyra, let go!" He struggled. 

It dawned on him. 

She clamped her arms around his neck, trying to choke him. He dropped down onto the floor, his right hand reaching up and around looking for something to grab at: her hair. He yanked hard, feeling her grip loosen. He crawled forward on all fours, gasping. Even as he tried to stand up, she punched him right in the base of the skull, making him fall flat onto his belly. 

He didn't see stars; he nearly blacked out.  

The imposter threw her hands around his neck. Adrian's hand came up just in time to prevent him from being garroted by the nearly invisible wire. Someone was trying to kill him. It was surreal, just even thinking about it. 

And then the pain brought him back to reality. The piano wire sliced into the flesh of his palm, cutting deep, white-hot searing pain making itself aware. He grit his teeth, warm blood dripping down his hand. Somehow, the cord seemed to amplify the pain that much more. In a knee-jerk reaction, he drew his elbow up and rammed it back once, twice. When this failed, he then drew his head forward and rammed the back of his skull into their nose. 

He heard the sound of a wet crunch. The sound of choking, the lurch of a breath expelled. Adrian felt the noose around his neck loosen. His hand still being sliced by the razor, ripped the garrote away from his assassin and hurled it across the room underneath the couch. 

He turned around, rubbing at his throat, spitting. He wiped his hands quickly on his jeans. The flesh on his palm was raw. 

"Motherfucker!" he rasped. 

The imposter had a stream of fluid running down its chin, its broken nose gushing. Still, it smiled and charged into Adrian, smashing his back into the wall with its arms wrapped around him, driving its fist into his gut. Breathless, Adrian reared his elbow up and brought it down onto its spine. The assassin howled, clutching at its back as Adrian scrambled away, putting his fists up weakly in a fighting stance. 

Adrian was never one for hitting a girl. But this time, he made an exception, morals be damned. What followed next could only be described as visceral, senseless violence. 

The changeling recovered, straightening its back with a grin, licking at the blood running down its face. It humored Adrian, putting its fists up before coming at him with a right hook. The boy put his left hand up, blocking the fist with a graceless smack before receiving one straight to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Adrian crumpled to his knees, gasping and clutching at his belly. Laying prone and his eyes full of tears, the changeling planted a foot on his side and kicked him down onto his back, raising a foot, about to curb stomp his face in. 

The teenager drove his foot up between its legs. The changeling snarled, falling back as Adrian stood shakily, blinking away the tears. He shuffled backwards slowly, sucking in air, feeling a soreness in his rib. His attacker stood up, steeling itself. Adrian faked left and went right, grabbing at their collar with his left hand and yanking at its hair with his right. 

His mind flashed back to a psychology lecture. Fight or flight, and he'd chosen fight. There was this desperation that he felt, the will to survive. At this point, adrenaline would be pumping through his veins. Blood would be rerouted to his muscles. His lungs would expand. His pupils would dilate.  

Adrian pulled at its hair. It screeched. He slammed its head against the wall with a pound.

Crash! 

He slammed her head into a glass display cabinet filled with vases and trophies. He tried again into a different glass case. It jabbed an elbow in his chest. Still, he managed to rip some strands out from its scalp. 

In the midst of all of this, he came to a sudden realization of how action scenes were so blatantly choreographed. All Hollywood stars had to do was pick themselves up and dust themselves off after being tossed around like rag dolls, looking no worse for wear, still gorgeous and handsome. 

Taking an elbow to the sternum, Adrian fell onto the ground on his back. The changeling was quick to act, pinning him down with a knee and wrapping its hands around his neck, its clawed fingers crushing his windpipe, digging its thumbs into his Adam's apple. Slowly beginning to black out, Adrian fumbled around with hands, grabbing onto the assassin's face. A thumb found an eye socket, beginning to dig in while another hand ripped at an ear. It pulled away, screaming. Adrian stood up quickly and threw himself at it in a football tackle, wrapping his arms around its midsection. 

With incredible strength it rolled, tossing him onto and over a coffee table. 

Both reeled from their injuries, taking a second to recover. There were no rules, no honor. Everything was permitted. 

Adrian felt tired. In real life, there was no certainty of both parties coming out unscathed. There was sweat, blood, and tears. They stumbled and fell. There were no flashy roundhouse kicks or haymakers or judo chops to be found here, only swift jabs and punches and calculated blocks and dodges. 

In that moment, the changeling decided to change things up. From an ankle holster, it drew a German-made Heckler & Koch USP45 and leveled it right at his head. 

Perhaps it was luck. Definitely luck. Lady Luck was on his side that day, for if he hadn't moved his head there would have been surely a mess on the floor. He grabbed a vase (his mother's favorite, oh well) and hurled it at the changeling, throwing its aim off. The gun discharged, leaving a hole in the ceiling. The sound was deafening in such close quarters. The changeling was on one knee, aiming at him again. He grabbed the slide of the gun (admittedly the stupidest thing to do) and redirected the barrel away from his face. The slide cycled, locking back due to his grip, and the iron sight sliced his hand. 

It was his only chance. 

He reacted accordingly, moving faster than he thought he was capable of and grabbing its wrist and slamming its hand against the wall. The gun scattered across the floor. 

"You disgusting—" 

His swift hand and dealt justice in the form of everyone's favorite. The back of his hand connected with the changeling's face with an audible slap, demonstrating the true meaning of "turning the other cheek". 

"—parasite!" 

There was a resounding distinct crack of its skull against laminated wood as it fell. Dazed, the changeling tried to recover, pushing itself slowly, grabbing at his ankle. He didn't let it get up, grabbing its collar and slugging it as hard as he could in the face. 

"Piece—" 

One to the jaw. Teeth smashed together. 

"—of—" 

Another to the cheek. Definitely some loose teeth. 

"—shit!" 

Again and again, his bleeding knuckles met its jaw with a wet, meaty crunch of bone on bone long after it was unconscious and beaten to a pulp, limply laying on the floor. 

"Hngh!" he grunted, walloping her harder and harder. "Hngh! Hng!" 

It had a bloody lip, a bloody nose, a black eye. He himself came out with a noticeable red mark around his neck. Underneath his shirt, there were several bruises. His hand was cut. He wheezed, sniffing and swallowing air, his shaking hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. 

Wiping at his face, Adrian stumbled forward, crouching down and reaching for the gun. He tapped the clip, yanked the slide, bringing it forward. He circled the body, the barrel hovering over its head. His finger quivered around the trigger. 

Adrian's eyes widened and he tucked the pistol away. All of a sudden he wanted to throw up. 

He reached for his phone (the screen now visibly cracked), and dialed a number. 

"Adrian?" a despondent voice spoke. 

"House," he wheezed, "now." 

Lyra started, "Adrian?" 

"No time...to explain." He gulped some air. "Just get over...here. Hah...." 

He ended the call and tossed his smartphone onto the coffee table. He wiped his hands, one pant leg smeared with blood from his sliced hand. He surveyed the damage. The couch was knocked over. The glass cabinet had two shattered windows. His mother's favorite vase was in pieces. There was a hole in the ceiling and a hole in the wall. He wondered how much it would cost to have the cleaning lady tidy the place up. He thought about filling the holes with some plaster or something. 

He was surprisingly calm. Maybe the shock of attempted murder had faded. He reached into a drawer and found some duct tape. The unconscious changeling twitched slightly. He planted a foot on its back as he wrestled its arms behind its back and secured it tightly. He tore off another strip and covered its mouth, and for good measure, bound its ankles as well. 

Fifteen minutes later after he was idly cleaning up the disaster of a living room, there was a knock at the door. He opened it. 

Gilda began, "Hey Adrian, where'd you get the swanky European ri—oh." 

All eight girls stared at him, jaw agape. Adrian stared back. They saw the unconscious imposter behind him, bound and gagged. 

"Oh, her?" 

A trickle of blood ran from his nose. He sniffed, wiping at his lip and scrunching his face. In an almost conversational voice, he asked, 

"Does," he gasped, "does anyone have a Band-Aid?"